


Community Service

by gloss



Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Anal Sex, Aphrodisiacs, Ass in a Wall, Blow Jobs, Breathplay, Clothed/Naked, Comeplay, Dry Orgasm, Fingering, Forced Orgasm, Gangbang, Hand Jobs, Knotting, Mind Control, Multi, Multiple Orgasms, Nipple Play, Non-Consensual Public Use, Non-Human Genitalia, Oviposition (Attempted), Prostate Milking, Rimming, Sounding, Tentacles, Weird Space Dicks, Xenophilia, slutshaming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-24
Updated: 2016-04-24
Packaged: 2018-06-01 22:08:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6538072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gloss/pseuds/gloss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Maybe Ren's telepathic romp left him marked, an easy target for anyone who'd like to help themselves to whatever it is they might want from him. Like a beacon, a scar that throbs and calls out, lets every sleaze and psycho know: <i>for a good time, probe Dameron</i>.</p><p>Still, he'd do anything for the Resistance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Community Service

**Author's Note:**

  * For [devilmouse](https://archiveofourown.org/users/devilmouse/gifts).



> thanks very much to Samantha, M., and G. for helping with various bits of this.

Poe is dead on his feet after what should have been a routine recon run veered into an unexpected firefight. He and Bastian pulled themselves out, barely, but B's fighter almost didn't leave hyperspace.

So you could say he's tired and distracted when they _do_ make it back. He can hear BB-8 chirping, but it takes him a couple tries to make sense of it. The airfield is deserted, which is good, considering it's only a few bells past middle watch. Bastian's busy with the mechs examining the foil that wouldn't open all the way, so Poe drags himself down the ladder and heads for the barracks.

BB-8 squeaks again.

Poe stops short, nearly stumbling over his own feet. "Sorry, buddy. Give me that again?"

_«Your presence is requested with the admiral.»_

"Now?"

 _«Yup!»_ His crown light blinks a few times for emphasis.

Lucky little guy never gets tired and his cheer never flags.

Poe sighs deeply. The early-morning air is humid, a little sweet from the fresh-running sap, but, pleasant as it is, it doesn't help him wake up any.

"On my way," he says, turning left for the command center rather than right for the barracks. And bed. And _sleep_.

In the command center, there's a skeleton crew. Just Connix frowning at map projections and Statura, standing in a doorway at the back, arms folded and expression angry.

"We didn't lose any equipment, sir," Poe says as he closes the distance between them. "Bastian's a little shaken up, but he'll be fine. The fighter could use an overhaul --"

"Inside," Statura says, standing a little aside.

This doesn't feel right, but Poe figures his exhaustion is making everything seem slightly off. This is like trying to think and see through a thick blanket over everything.

"Yes, sir." At least inside Statura's tiny office, he can sit.

Except the one free chair is taken up by --. Someone. A member of a species Poe doesn't recognize. It is a complex of fleshy lobes, wrapped around a central stalk. The color of twilight clouds, the lobes shift and swell, in constant, minute motion.

When it turns to him, one of the topmost lobes darkens at the center, so he takes that as an eyespot. Hopefully he isn't making a grave, deeply offensive mistake. 

So he's still on his feet, swaying, while Statura closes the door and makes his way to his desk.

"Commander, this is Facilitator Jik. From Ulyblu."

Poe salutes the alien. "Sir. Or ma'am. Or."

"Ma'am," Jik says. Her voice doesn't emerge from a mouth, but simply resonates outward from her entire body. It is the sound of expensive honey, and Corellian brandy, the rich dregs of punch at the bottom of the bowl.

"Can I --" Poe closes his eyes, trying to keep his balance. "Is everything all right?"

Statura glances at Jik, then down at the datapad in his hands. "There's a warrant for your arrest."

"What?"

"Five cycles back," Jik says, her voice melodic. "You violated Ulyblu's Sacrosanct Edict of Respect and Non-Interference."

"I..." Poe looks around, as if there's going to be a more forthcoming answer from the vines on the walls or the faded holo-stills of Old Republic warships. "I have no idea what that is."

"Clearly," Jik says. Sarcasm knows no cultural boundaries: that's one thing Poe has learned.

"So, what am I supposed to do?" Poe asks Statura. They might not like each other very much (not after the what happened on Kolanda Station), but in this small, close room, Statura's the closest thing he has to an ally. "Where's the general, anyway?"

"She's off-planet," Statura says. "Though I doubt, were she here, that even she could extricate you from this particular mess." 

There it is, that lingering bitterness Statura has over what he claims is Leia's special treatment of Poe.

"Violations of the edict receive a minimum seven-year sentence in the Ulyblumian crystal mines."

"I --" Poe looks at her beseechingly. "There has to be a, a fine? I can pay a fine! Or --"

"Given the accused's present circumstances," Jik continues, as if Poe had never spoken, "that is, as an alleged member of the resistance --"

"Alleged?"

Statura shrugs. "I showed her all your documents. It's legalese, so far as I can tell."

"Can I defend myself?" Poe asks Jik. "Get a hearing? Engage a lawyer?"

"I've had both Huwn and Plades-Chow look over the warrant," Statura says, naming a former senator and the base's all-purpose solicitor. "They both said it looks incontestable."

BB-8 nudges Poe's calf, trilling a little. It sounds like _«make a deal»_.

"That is true," Jik says. "I am authorized, given the accused's alleged rank and claim of ties to the resistance, to offer a deal. Moreover, should his performance prove acceptable, Ulyblumian resources shall be at the disposal of the resistance."

Relief overwhelms Poe. "What is it? I'll do --"

Statura holds up his hand. "Don't agree without hearing the terms. Where's your _brain_ , Dameron?"

"Back with Bastian's malfunctioning foils," Poe admits. The relief is all but drained and gone now. 

"Community service," Jik says. "Three Ulyblumian solar cycles long."

Poe looks down at BB-8. "Three cycles?"

_«One and a third standard days.»_

"I'll do it."

"It's intensive labor," she adds. "Quite...draining. Certainly not for everyone."

"But it's not seven years in the mines," Poe replies.

He thinks that's a smile she gives him, or her equivalent; a high lobe curls upward and the frills along its edge wave lightly at him. "No. Far less punishing than that. You might even enjoy it."

He's a nice guy, he can't help smiling back. "Sounds perfect. Then it's settled."

"Commander," Statura says, standing and indicating the door. "A word?"

" _Now_ you want to talk?" Poe says, following Statura out into the command centre.

"Yes, because now you're all but humping that alien's leg."

So jealousy dies hard, living long after the relationship, or whatever it was they had, is over. "Selim --"

"Admiral, thank you."

Poe grimaces. " _Admiral_ , this is the best solution to a bizarre situation. Next furlough, I'll go, do my community service, and be back with time to spare."

"You could at least _pretend_ to think this through," Statura says. 

"It could help the cause," Poe says. "That alone makes it worth it."

Jik joins them; she doesn't move forward so much as swell until she has reached her destination, displacing the air as she goes. "Our shuttle leaves in ten minutes."

"You want me to go _now_?"

She dips her topmost lobe in assent. "You may rest in transit."

Statura waves Poe off. "Go, get this over with."

BB-8 races after Poe, but Jik speaks to it in Binary and BB-8 stops, rolls back, and almost _moans_.

Poe understands Binary, or he thought he did. But he has no idea what that melodic string of sounds could have possibly conveyed.

"I told it you are in good...hands, I believe you'd say," Jik says. "You will be returned unharmed very soon."

"Yeah?" Poe asks doubtfully, looking over his shoulder. BB-8 remains in the same spot, crown tilted abashedly. "Hey, buddy, I'll see you soon, okay? Tell Finn what's up for me, will you?"

At that, BB-8 cheers right up, chirping assurances back before turning and racing for the barracks.

Inside the shuttle, the air is close, much more humid than Poe's used to; given how much of Jik is exposed, how damp and fleshy she is, the moisture levels make a lot of sense. The environment is close, organic, nearly fetid, like greenhouse fallen into neglect. The light is low and blue-green, almost aquatic. There doesn't seem to be a simple angle or straight line anywhere. Rather, everything is curvilinear, doubled back on itself, branching and rhizomatic.

Jik directs Poe to lie down on a low, well-padded platform. He doesn't need any encouragement.

A tubular array rises from the floor, looking harsh and highly technical, woefully out of place. When its needles poke at his arm and side, he tries to sit up, only to find he can't.

"What the _fuck_?"

"Medical checks," Jik says serenely. She has enlarged to occupy what seems to be the front of the shuttle. He can't see past her to study the ship's controls. "Some necessary tests, genetic screenings, and then necessary nutrition."

"Nutrition?"

"Fluids, to guard against dehydration. A protein slurry..." 

All right, none of that sounds too terrible. 

"Some mild sedatives, muscle relaxants, and aphrodisiacs."

He wants to shout, but all that comes out, through the fog of exhaustion and who-the-hell-knows-what he's already been dosed with is, "hmm? What?"

"Relax," she tells him. His lids are so heavy, he's just going to keep them closed for now. 

*

He wakes in another chamber, just as cloying as the last. He is completely naked, and, he thinks, but couldn't quite say why, _scrubbed clean_. When he swings his feet onto the floor and stands up, it takes his balance a few breathless moments to catch up.

From the corner, Jik says, "Hello."

He's half-hard and covers himself with both hands. "Where am I? What are you _doing?_ "

"Nar Shaddaa," she replies. 

"The smuggler's moon? You said we were going to Ulyblu."

He wants to gesture, pound the air, stamp his feet, but there's something almost primal, a little atavistic, about his stronger need to protect himself, keep himself covered.

"We are in the Ulyblumian consulate on Nar Shaddaa," she says. "So, technically, Ulyblumian territory." One of her eyespots widens, and he reads, somehow, both amusement and condescension in the expression. "Please, don't bother hiding your genitalia. To answer your other question, I am supervising your preparation."

Something about the word _genitalia_ , especially spoken in her gorgeous voice, makes Poe want to cover everything about himself. Shame wells up from somewhere deep inside, a sticky, dark feeling he hasn't had in _years_. Decades, even.

"Preparation," he repeats, faintly. Like _genitalia_ , it's such a clinical word.

"Turn around," she says.

"I --" He shifts his stance, then realizes that fighting _now_ , before he understands anything of what's going on, would be even stupider than some of his stupidest impulsive decisions. It's also remarkably difficult to imagine how he would fight. "Okay."

He's facing the wall, which is, like the interior of the shuttle before it, highly _organic_ in appearance: a shifting mass of tendrils and vines that are neither quite vegetation nor animal. 

"This is an Aelit," Jik says. "Your Ulyblumian host."

The vines unfurl, transforming from a thicket into a web. They reach for Poe, lifting him up and enfolding him all in the space of a moment or two. 

Yet he _remembers_ watching them move, and it was quite slow, a beautiful display, slow as a moon's transit across the sky. 

"Aelit," Poe manages to say. "I'm Poe. Good to meet you?"

Aelit rustles softly; it tickles Poe's cheeks and gently squeezes his palms.

Time is different in here; space is, too. He is suspended in their midst, vines looped around his wrists, his waist, spreading open his legs. Around his knees and ankles. His neck, too, head bent back, smaller tendrils teasing at his mouth and nostrils. Ears. He is bent at angles that ought to be impossible -- painful and tortuous -- but nothing hurts. This isn't like zero-gravity, which always feels like a moment snatched from a plummet, but it isn't like being hung _by_ anything, either.

"Aelit is the scientific name. It is nonsentient," Jik says, a little contemptuously, as if his ignorance currently amuses her, but could cease to, very soon. "A courtesan vine, well-suited to the display and support of your service."

 _Courtesan vine_ sounds like something he'd buy for Finn as a joke in a duty-free shop, then not know how to keep alive.

Poe doesn't bother to argue. The response it gave to his greeting was decidedly sentient. He's naked and exposed, and however oddly _comfortable_ this feels, it is also... _not_. Not comfortable in the least, in any sense beyond the merely physical.

Jik approaches him, doing that swell-forward and displace space thing. She raises two lobes, almost like arms, to cup his face and stroke at his mouth. Her skin, for lack of a better word (hide? pelt?), is damp and poreless, almost marine. Her eye spots widen as her antennae twine together with two of Aelit's tendrils, and then it's like she's kissing Poe, with her hands, with her lobes. Aelit tilts him nearly upright, hips pushed outward, and another lobe wraps around his cock, tugs him closer, _inside_ something.

Poe can't struggle. He _thinks_ about struggling, but it's hypothetical. Just a thought experiment, half a calculus equation. His mind is not _in_ his body, so far as he can tell, but simply adjacent.

The traces Ren left in his mind, all through his nervous system, are probably activating, if they haven't already. Ren saw everything about Poe, laid him out flayed and trembling, and _laughed_. Fuck knows what kind of tripwires and stains he left behind, as a joke, or just out of sheer sadistic carelessness.

Jik's body tastes _good_ , or so his senses tell him. Sweet, a little salty, incredibly soft in texture but remarkably strong: all muscle, no bones in the way. She sucks at his face and cock simultaneously, enveloping tongue and dick, throbbing around him.

If he were to struggle, he'd spit, and bite, and back away.

One of the vines around his neck, twining over one ear, rustles softly. **< patience, patience,>** he hears, as if from far away. **< you can do this, you will survive this.>**

He knows those are not his thoughts. He doesn't mind them -- in fact, he would like to agree with them, but they aren't his own. He would speak, but Jik fills his mouth, fucks herself around his tongue, so he thinks, 

**< calm,>** it tells him, **< just remain calm, beautiful one.>**

Poe breathes through his nose and tries to believe it. His stupid body is betraying him with all it's got. It _likes_ this, likes this _a lot_. Jik tastes good, and his nerves are sparking and shooting with pleasure, and his dick is twitching fast in her hold.

Maybe Ren's telepathic interrogation left him marked, an easy target for anyone who'd like to help themselves to whatever it is they might want from him. Like a beacon, a scar that throbs and calls out, lets every sleaze and psycho know _for a good time, probe Dameron_.

Jik is flushing, dark and darker, swelling inside and around him, starting to shudder. Poe's cock leaps and shoots, as the orgasm blazes through him. He can't _not_ feel it, has to pant and moan through it. He can't stay quiet. 

He shouldn't be this susceptible. All Jik had to was string him up and he's literally begging for more use.

Jik condenses, then peels herself off him. The room is very bright now, and Aelit is slowly turning. He can hear applause from a mixed group with various physical traits: clapping, yes, but also nasal hooting, cartilage slapping, a few trunks guffawing. So many voices.

"Welcome," Jik tells the crowd, stretching herself upward, rearranging herself into a tall, elegant column. "We are so happy to have you all here. Please, help yourself to all we have on offer. The bar is open, the buffet endless, and this bounty --" She shakes one of Aelit's thicker vines, which shakes Poe, too. His cock bobs and some droplets of come fly off. "Is to be enjoyed by all."

He wants to shout, but all that comes out is a breathy moan. He wants to hide, but he's hung here on display, every centimeter of his body exposed and available.

One point five standard days. He's gotten through worse, for longer.

"The bounty says hey," he says when a tall humanoid approaches him. Masked, draped in weird armor, the person is either a mercenary or really kinked on the merc look. "Buy a bounty a drink?"

Interesting. He can't actively or verbally resist, but he can otherwise speak.

It slaps him across the cheek, backhanded, and, as he wobbles in Aelit's vines, pulls him forward by his balls. It hurts, of course it does, but it's also _good_. Everywhere that Aelit isn't touching him, every bare patch and open hole, aches for contact.

"Getting right down to it," Poe says through the blood in his mouth. "I can see the appeal --"

He's hard again - _still_ , now that he thinks about it - and he's thrusting against the merc's armored glove. Just a little friction, even abrasive as this is, is better than nothing. He can feel another orgasm building in his balls. Already.

The merc yanks back its hand, sending Poe and Aelit snapping back a little, then grabs Poe by the neck and shoves him down. He's floating face down, ass up, as the merc wrenches off its codpiece and shoves forward, filling Poe's mouth, cracking open his jaw.

 **< relax,>** Aelit thinks at him. 

Easy for a vine to think about relaxing.

The merc's phallus isn't quite human. Silvery-gray, cooler than a human's, and less flexible, but the shape's about the same. Poe tries to think of it as a dildo, a toy, but then again he's never deepthroated a dildo before.

He is now. He can't breathe except in tiny, frustrating squeaks that do less than nothing. The phallus pushes deeper, and it's so stiff that it's pulling him up perpendicular to the merc's snapping hips.

If he weren't a pilot, this suspension and constant change in perspective alone would be nauseating.

Past the immediate noise of the merc's creaking armor and Poe's thundering pulse and desperate breath, there are sounds of an argument. He can't make out the language; it might even be Basic and he's just too overwhelmed to make sense of it.

The merc stops thrusting and says something, more loudly, but someone else has paws on Poe's ass and is pulling him to the right.

Aelit's dimensional talents fold and extend Poe's body along several different planes. The merc swells _more_ , so even Poe's teeth are starting to hurt, while a long, very broad tongue starts licking down Poe's crack.

He's moaning, and the merc likes that, pulling at his hair, pushing in fast and ragged. The tongue behind him feels about as wide as a human male's foot, slobbering, seeking. Aelit helps Poe push back into the touch, spread his legs, expose himself more.

He should at least keep still. Why can't he do that? 

He wants _more_.

He imagines biting down on the merc, kicking back at the tongue, but those thoughts do nothing. They're tricks of the light when you're flying on no sleep, things that vanish just as soon as you blink and shake yourself awake.

He's fully awake now. The merc pulls out and jacks himself twice, then comes all over Poe's face. His spunk is darker than human, even more sour, but every bit as runny-yet-sticky. Some landed in Poe's left eye, and it stings, and it's hard to blink.

The tongue presses against his asshole; whatever it belongs to must be massive, and strong, because the pressure is overwhelming. Poe clenches once, but nothing happens. The cocktail of drugs he's on has left him more pliable than he ever thought possible. When the tongue starts entering him, the warmth of being touched makes him shudder all over, rock back into it, open and open until it feels like it's halfway up his spine, licking him open, twisting inside him and spreading him.

"You poor thing," someone says, not a human, he thinks. It's hard to think. 

Someone else has a grip on his right wrist and is moving it against their body, using him to pet themselves, damp and fuzzy folds. He _likes_ that sensation, wants more. He spreads his fingers and reaches for more, gets a gush over palm and a satisfied, rough-sounding purr.

Poe peers up blearily, one eye almost all the way stuck shut, his mouth opening, as the tongue thing eats him from the inside out and he fingers someone else.

This slightly ethereal, androgynous insectoid person is looking down at Poe. Large compound eyes glitter as one set of mandibles lifts and parts in something like a smile. It says again, "You poor thing."

Poe tries to smile. His lips are cracked in the corners from the merc's assault and his mouth is sticky from its come. "What? I'm having a great time."

It swirls its blue cape off and uses one stunted leg to tug on Aelit to bring Poe up to its eye level. Just below the mandibles, a proboscis starts to unroll, and unroll, until it's licking at Poe's clavicle, the base of his throat, and _humming_.

This isn't so bad, he tells himself. This is almost kind of nice.

The proboscis clamps onto one of his nipples, then twists, and Poe moans loudly enough to interrupt the conversation over at the buffet table. Two humans and a Sullustan shoot them dirty glances and edge away.

The party just keeps going on. He catches snatches of chitchat, gossip and small talk. People are dancing by; there are a few loners stuffing their eating apparatuses over at the buffet.

He's just one snack among many.

His insectoid partner is growing more excited; large silver wings unfold from its back and beat the air, cooling some of Poe's flush. It edges closer, dipping its head, butting its carapace against his chest until the proboscis is teasing at his balls.

He comes from the touch, ejaculating with a groan that resounds oddly off its carapace. The proboscis twines around his cock, jerking it, and he comes again, dry and hot, tears stinging his eyes. It's so good and awful, and he's about to ask for more.

The tongue up his ass pulls him back, away from the insect, who chitters angrily. Poe swings between them, panting, twisting into each new touch, until the insect grasps him with four legs. It stabs forward, piercing his side with something like a javelin.

He should scream. He needs to scream and scramble away; even Aelit is reacting, trying to bundle him up and out of reach, but the thing in him is barbed and holding him fast as the thorax swells and pulses.

The harpoon fucks him, sawing in and out, snagging on itself, pushing back in. He hears himself moan and can't stop himself.

"Oh, no, no, no!" Jik shrieks, blooming into place, swatting the insect away with one lobe. "No!"

Its harpoon tears out of Poe, the pain strong enough that he can feel it through the heavy, fuzzy layer of pleasure coating his perception. Blood wells and runs; Aelit presses a leaf against the wound and whispers in his mind soothing thoughts. 

On its back, one beautiful wing bent and broken, the insect can't seem to right itself. All six legs wave in the air as its harpoon pumps out egg after egg, quivering little maggot-things that spill over its cape and skid across the floor.

Aelit wraps more vines around Poe, shielding him. The leaf on his wound drops off, soaked with blood, and Aelit shimmies around to replace it. Its leaves are cooler, sweeter, than even the highest-dose bacta patch. Poe leans into the touch, twists into Aelit's hold, seeking more stimulation.

"Would you go to a party and break their furniture? Steal their cutlery?" Jik shrieks at the insect. "Do. Not. Maltreat our entertainment." She shudders as her lobes twitch and flail. It seems to take a great deal of effort to recompose herself, drawing up tall and still, but when she does, she says in a steadier voice, "I hardly need to remind any of you of the penalties for such violation."

Poe wants to laugh. He can be strung up and made available for use, but Force forbid he get banged up in the process. 

"What's the hard line here?" he asks. "Can I get bruised? What if I rupture something? Merely muss up my hair? Or is it only egg-laying, maybe full on rectal wreckage, that'll get you angry?"

Jik pats his head absently. "Dear thing, you do think you're clever."

"I'm just wondering," he says. "Like to know what I'm in for."

She runs the frilled edge of one lobe down the center of his chest. He tries to stay quiet and still; his dick feels nearly raw, his balls dry and twisted inside out, but all the same, he's hard, still, forever. Her touch is tickling, too light, scraping up yet more need from every pore it passes.

"You're in --" Jik leans in a little closer. "For whatever my honored guests want."

Poe grunts as she rocks the lobe between his legs, bouncing his balls, tickling his crack. "So, anything. Except eggs, got it."

"No permanent physical damage will be inflicted," she says. "Here I would have thought you'd be grateful not to be turned into a broodnest."

"But I _can_ be a cumbucket, huh?"

"So many questions," she says. "What do you think you're buying time for?"

"I'm a pretty simple guy. Helps to spell everything out for me." 

"Of course," she says, benevolently, almost like she's granting his fondest wish. "You make such a superb cumbucket, so tortured and flushed. _Hungry_. And you know what they always say: It's not an Ulyblumian party until you're all sloshing through it!"

Poe closes his good eye and swallows. His usual brain, the (fairly) rational one, knows to be disgusted by the image, by his position here. But his hindbrain, that traitorous bundle of needy, yearning nerves, sits up and all but _coos_ at the same thought.

"Yes," Jik says, withdrawing in a throb and whisper. "I thought so."

He deserves this. Somehow, whatever Ren did to him, twisted up with all his stupid romantic crises and sexual experiments, has led him here, open mouthed, leaking cum, moaning for more. He should be here.

*

He should know this species name. He's had the list of sentients memorized since he was fourteen and cramming for the academy. The creature is tall, slightly gelatinous, a tangle of orange and pink tentacles. A beak protrudes from near the center of the tentacles, but there's nothing like eyes, no suggestion of a face, nothing to _look_ at. The longer Poe tries to find something to focus on, the dizzier he grows. When it unfurls one tentacle toward him, the scent of dirty salt water comes with it. He swallows what should be a retch but would probably come out as a groan.

The tentacle is coated with suction cups, too many, arrayed in spirals that spin out from each other, for a human mind to contemplate. Poe understands that, at least. The tentacle's sharp tip brushes over one of his nipples, then the other. Now he does groan, from deep in his gut, because it feels like a pinch, and a tongue, and a sucking mouth, all at the same time.

 **< good,>** Aelit murmurs. **< you like this?>**

"Fuck," Poe moans. "Yeah, I like this."

It's as if he's bathing in warm, gently flowing water, or breezes: he's relaxed, even happy, more like himself than he's felt since well before bastian's drive blew out.

 **< my kelp sister,>** Aelit says, **< she likes you, likes the dry little monkey with the pretty face.>**

"Yeah --. Yeah, thank you?"

Another tentacle takes hold of his other nipple, and Poe arches his back to push into the touch. Suction cups adhere to his chest, then lift with a sting, before brushing back and clamping down again. One cup fastens on his right nipple, tearing a moan from him, while the other tentacle teases the left nipple.

He likes his nipples just fine, always has, far more than the kind of guy who denies having any sensation there, but this is a different order of enjoyment. If previous pleasure was a good, solid ration bar, this is a feast, a buffet overspilling a groaning table.

"Can I --" Poe twists a little in Aelit's embrace. "Can I make it good for her? Can I do something back?"

He gets the impression of laughter, of a sort of fond bemusement.

"I want to --" He moans again when someone behind him slaps one of his asscheeks.

A third tentacle brushes the head of his cock, making him arch and thrust. Aelit restrains him, gently at first, then much more firmly, when the tentacle's tip rubs at his piss slit. The sensation whirls inside, makes his hips move to match. When it slips inside, however, he stills, all over, head down, breath caught somewhere in his throat. If the nipple sensation was novel-but-distantly-familiar, this is completely different. _Alien_ , he thinks, and would laugh, except something is ever so gently fucking his _dick_ , rotating inside him, spinning out pleasure from a burn he's never felt before.

He's pulled taut as a bowstring, nipples and cock, as the tentacle works deeper within him. _Something_ happens then, something grazes, then fucks into, his prostate, and he howls, riding the pleasure, bucking off it like a comet.

He's coming, again, pleasure forking between his nipples, then running together, doubling, speeding, rushing down the center of his dick. Even as he shoots dry, the suction cups brush over, then engulf, his nipples still and more pleasure barrels through him.

He's shaking and moaning and someone's spreading his ass again.

When the tentacles withdraw, they look slightly withered, a little deflated. 

His chest is smeared with something sticky, translucent and orange. It's incredibly warm as it sinks through his pores. 

**< she leaves you with joy,>** Aelit tells him, even as it lifts Poe up, like he's flying, ass thrust up, arms spread out. 

He takes that metaphorically, some weird tentacle-plant equivalent to _nice to meet you_. It is only as time passes that Poe starts to think the comment might have been literal. As the orange slime dries, he loses that edge of relaxed joy that had made him smile, want to service the tentacles. 

In its wake, he's angry again, helpless, throttled by guilt all over again. That's inside; wrapping around him, blurring every thought, is the sensory overload, the longing for touch and stimulation, the empty aching need to be filled deeper and feel _more_.

Every single time someone called him a slut is happening all over again, together, so loudly he can't hear his own thoughts.

He can't keep track of how much is happening, who's using him. Aelit cuddles him, sometimes throwing a small, juvenile vine across his eyes when it gets to be too much. There's no rhythm, no reason for any of this, except that he's here and available. Each guest brings their own logic, takes their pleasure, and departs. Poe thinks he should take a long view, endure, wait them out.

That's a lot easier thought than done.

Three humans, two Yarkorae, and a Devaronian queue up, jostling each other, arguing about who was first, but the Ossan ahead of them has Poe supine, arms over his head, as it drives into his ass with a dull single-mindedness. He can't look straight-on at its sharp, murine snout without wanting to retch.

Then, when a snarling Trandoshan shoves his way to the front of the line and uses one claw to open Poe's mouth, he wishes like hell he could still see the Ossan. Or anything else rather than the forked, scaly penis pushing into him. He swallows, and swallows, but it's too short, and blunt, to do much more than choke and scrape his mouth. At this angle, the Trandoshan is cutting air off from his nose, too, and he sees tiny black spots swarming, growing, _effervescing_ over his vision whether his eyes are open or not. He passes out, then shakes awake when the Ossan's knot swells tearingly huge and pumps him full. It slumps over him, to the annoyance of the rest of the queue. The knot radiates solar-level heat; Poe imagines he must look like a fire lantern, at a festival back home. A quivering bag of skin taut around the flame, winking out in the dark.

He sees black again, just a flat expanse of it, then the Trandoshan pulls out and comes with a roar, splattering Poe's face and chest and the Ossan's ears.

His body loves this, aching and used and just so _open_ and ready for more. He wants, more than anything, out of this body. He imagines withdrawing from his body, unlatching from his skin and curling up deep inside, somewhere inside his rib cage or at the back of his skull, where he can be tiny and hidden.

And then someone else touches his dick, boasts something to his friends, and Poe comes again, yowling, thrusting into bare air, like a puppet, like no one's home but nerves and come, slick skin and holes that need.

When the Ossan finally deflates and withdraws, a human male hauls Poe close by the hips, one of Poe's legs over his shoulder, and Poe lets his head fall back, defies what he remembers of gravity in Aelit's embrace. The man's cock slips in the torrent of the Ossan's come that's spilling out of Poe. Angry, he drives in harder, not fucking so much as stuffing himself inside, talking over his shoulder to his companions like you would at any other party.

"The hyperlanes out there're hotter than anything," he's saying, but the friend must disagree, because he digs his fingers into Poe's hips, scraping nails, and thrusts deeper. "Think I know what I seen with my own eyes, Rab."

"Just propaganda and superstition," Rab snaps back. "You almost done there or what?"

"Use his mouth, I'm good here."

"Yeah," Poe croaks, then has to take a second when the man changes angle, folding Poe's leg up against his chest, which scrapes bright, spangled pleasure up through Poe, filling his chest, leaking out in a moan. "Yeah, use his mouth, it needs to get more fucked-up."

If he keeps reminding them he's here, maybe someone will notice, even care.

"Sure thing," Rab says. He twists Poe's head over, tipping up his chin, while unfastening his trousers and pulling out his cock. Poe catches himself from feeling disappointed that it's not that thick. It's a little scrawny, actually. Once he's in, settling into a quick, shallow rhythm, he resumes the argument with his buddy.

"...spice is going to need a couple extra markups."

"Yeah, you tell the Hutts that. Gods, that's tight," the buddy says, leaning over Poe's chest, just about rubbing himself off inside.

Poe laughs, but it sounds like a moan around Rab's dick. He can't imagine being tight ever again. What is the guy usually fucking, anyway? Cargo bays?

As soon as the man pulls out, a Yarkora takes his place. Poe tries to catch his breath, tries not to react when the big camelid _shoves_ himself in, but he does. He whimpers, then can't stop, because whatever the Yarkora has between his legs is longer than any human's, but a little thinner, almost prehensile. It's nudging his prostrate, not incidentally as usually happens, but deliberately, licking at it, embracing it, teasing it, and Poe's hips are thrusting helplessly now as he comes and comes, shooting nothing but what feels like ion fire, invisible and blazing, and he _hears_ himself begging for more.

He hears it, hates it, and keeps doing it. 

Rab's rubbing his cockhead all over Poe's face, like a kid discovering finger-painting, letting it skid in the mess on his chest, chasing his lips as Poe keeps coming, twisting around the Yarkora's dick, wrapping his legs around its hairy waist to pull himself closer, babbling. 

It milks him, and does not stop. Rab comes over his face, and another of their buddies, too, and still Poe is flying in place. He could swear he can hear Aelit singing in rapture with him.

"All right, that's enough," someone says to his right.

The Yarkora snarls and shoves the stranger away. Poe is still thrusting, arching his back beyond what even Aelit can manipulate, his cock jumping like Chandrilan homing fish up a stream. A scuffle starts, shouts happen, and a blaster fires.

The Yarkora crumples and falls backward, ripping out of Poe as he goes. Swinging wildly, Poe shrieks at the sudden loss; Aelit moans in his mind at the fiery tear to one of its main support vines.

His hips are still snapping up, seeking stimulation. It does hurt now; he thinks for a second that all he can feel is the emptiness. It's all he's ever going to feel.

But then the pleasure pulses back and steals over him, stronger than ever. The fluids leaking out of him are a little chilly, but their creep down his legs is pleasant, sort of like being licked. His mouth is torn in three places, but the sting of air on the cuts is like a series of good, hard kisses.

It's the drugs, of course it's the drugs.

He wouldn't enjoy this otherwise. He'd have to be seriously fucked-up for that to be the case. Of course.

It's the drugs, and it's whatever Ren did to him, but more than anything, it's _him_.

What was it his dad always used to say, those nights Poe came home too late, or got dragged in by someone else's disapproving parents, or crashed the starfighter he boosted? 

_Just because it feels good, kiddo, don't make it right._

The party resumes quickly after the Yarkora's assailant is dragged away. Poe can't see what happens to the Yarkora himself; he wants to know, but the thought is, like every other one, flimsy and easy to forget in the face of his _need_. He reclines in Aelit's enveloping vines, sweat prickling at the bruises and scrapes all over his body. The wound in his side is all but closed and healed; the edges tickle and ache like an ordinary scab is forming.

A Felucian pushes through the dancers and shoulders aside a pink-faced Sullustan who's been loitering nearby, trying to work up the nerve to approach Aelit's dais. He is huge, even for a Felucian, broad-shouldered, all the tentacles on his head as thick at least as Poe's wrist; they writhe slowly, almost sensuously, against each other.

"Evening," Poe says, tipping forward as the Felucian grabs his shoulder with one of his main arms. His skin is gray as rainclouds, streaked with blue down his arms, and his loincloth rattles constantly with tiny bells and broken shells. "Or morning? What time _is_ it?"

He doesn't get an answer. Now that Poe is close enough, the Felucian holds his shoulders with his smaller arms and pulls Poe the rest of the way by his face, with several tentacles. They lack suction cups, but are implacably strong, digging into his cheek and tugging on his hair. 

"All right --" Poe doesn't get to finish the second syllable; a thick tentacle pushes into his mouth, squirming over his tongue. The angle's not great, and it's so _active_ , wriggling back and forth as well as up and down, in and out, that he's can't do anything in response beyond try to relax his jaw. Smooth, cartilaginous, the tentacle bumps against his palate and pushes against his tongue; the tip scrapes the back of his throat, actually makes him choke and retch for the first time. 

And, somehow, miraculously, the Felucian notices that. He pauses, squeezing Poe's shoulders with delicate fingers, and rocks back until the tentacle's tip is just barely hooked over Poe's teeth. He shifts Poe a little upward into Aelit, changes the angle of his own head, then pushes the tentacle back in. Fast and hard, but far more smoothly than before.

This isn't, Poe thinks, kissing, though the tentacle emerges from what is commonly accepted as a Felucian's head, but it's not a blow job, either, not really. He can't close his lips around it - it's moving too much, testing and probing and writhing - nor can he lick or taste.

Other tentacles tangle in Poe's hair, tickle and poke at his shoulders and chest. But the one in his mouth is the important one, he thinks (but what does he know? and what does it matter?). It's pushing into his throat, then withdrawing, skating the tip over his teeth, twanging at his uvula. This is erotic, somehow, vaguely and not quite accurately; he's being teased, opened up (as if he could be more widely open). Poe inclines toward the Felucian, imagining wrapping his arms around that tentacled head, clinging, taking the tentacle down his throat, into his gut.

The Felucian's long arms end in hands composed of a quartet of suction cup-tipped digits; he folds one hand around Poe's dick, even as he twists and flutters the tentacle in Poe's mouth, and Poe rocks into the sticky, difficult grip. There's a rhythm setting up, rocking and pushing, in and out, forward and back.

 **< lovely>**, Aelit whispers.

Poe can't think back much beyond _mmm_ ; he's going to come soon - though how that's possible, he has no idea - feels the heat drawing him taut, down his spine, up his throat, and each brush and every squirm of the Felucian against him makes him harder, nudges him closer to the edge.

The Felucian butts closer, stepping on Aelit, tilting his hips and raking down his loincloth to discharge all over Poe's thighs. The spray is powerful but diffuse. 

"Of course I don't have an invitation," someone is yelling across the room. "Have you even _heard_ of me? Since when did I need an invitation?"

Someone whispers, "I thought he was dead."

"I thought he was older."

Poe is panting, the Felucian's sperm dripping off him in audible splashes; over his shoulder, he catches a glimpse of white shirt, brown leather jacket. Dark hair. Any humanoid spacer.

"Excuse me," Jik says with that warm, florid tone overlaying unquestioned authority. "This is a private occasion."

"Yeah, but what's an Ulyblumian hootenanny without Han Solo?" the spacer says, falling into step with Jik. They're approaching the dance floor now.

A Wookiee hoots in assent. 

"Turn me around?" Poe asks Aelit.

It hesitates, then, slowly, lifts and spins him about 150°. **< she won't like this.>**

"It's all right", he thinks, though that's probably a lie.

"Nice, nice," the one calling himself Solo says, hands on his hips, nodding as he turns slowly, taking in the party. "Not quite the wild time I was hoping for, but, yeah. This'll do."

"I seem to remember Solo being..." Jik tries to swell into the space between Aelit and Solo, but the Wookiee cuts her off. "Much paler."

Solo tips an invisible hat to her. "That was the old one. I'm new."

When the facts finally penetrate Poe's mind, make their way through the haze and buzz of pleasure and need - that is Chewie, that is _Finn_ \- he lets out a long sigh, feels as if he's deflating entirely.

Chewie catches his eye and Poe manages to nod, a tiny motion that makes Aelit rustle.

Poe is naked and soaked and raw. Shame, or something related to it, something even worse, breaks the surface of his thoughts, sudden and jagged. No, they should go, he's going to be out of here relatively soon. They shouldn't see him like this.

Finn shouldn't see him like this.

"Very nice," Finn-Solo's saying now. They really did the whole costume, too, every detail, Poe notes as Finn turns around. Finn's eyes ticking over him and Aelit as if there's nothing unusual. The collar of his tight white jersey is open halfway to his navel; his vest doesn't match his Corellian breeches; his knee-high boots are worn in, creased and creaking just right. "Think I'll stay."

"You're not invited," Jik says. She actually sounds a little desperate as well as exasperated. When she signals for security, Chewie lets out a long growl of warning. The lobe she'd raised lowers. "Really, Captain Solo, if that is who you are --"

"Trade name, highly coveted. You wouldn't believe the licensing fees," Finn tells her, curtly, as if he doesn't have the time or inclination to explain further. He has his body turned away from Poe and Chewie, but he taps two fingers on his side and Chewie takes another step closer to Aelit.

"Why don't we go somewhere quiet and discuss this?" Jik says.

"Now, see, I don't think there's anything _to_ discuss." Finn tips his head back toward Poe. "Unless you want Republic forces up in here in the next five minutes --"

"Impossible," she says. "On Nar Shaddaa?"

"Strange, though, how even on Nar Shaddaa, trafficking for the purposes of prostitution is frowned on?" Finn pats one of her lobes at roughly shoulder height. "That is, when the authorities don't get their fair cut."

"This man is servicing us of his own free will."

"Turn me back around," Poe asks Aelit. "Please, this is --"

"And of his own free will," Finn asks, "he also agreed to have his personal image holo-streamed to all who'd pay, I suppose?"

Aelit hasn't moved him, but it does drop a few leaves in front of him. That's something. 

Not much, but something.

"No, I didn't think so," Finn tells her. "Let's go, Chewie."

Chewbacca lunges into Aelit, wrapping his arm around Poe's waist; he shoots a bolt from his crossbow with the other paw while Finn covers the security detail. A sweep of blue light from - somewhere else, Poe can't see and isn't capable of following - joins the melee and it's all he can do to shriek, "The plant, please help the --"

Chewie hears him at least, and there's a pause while Rey fends off a Trandoshan and four sec-droids with her lightsaber, while Finn backs up to help Chewie.

Poe closes his eyes. A kid's trick: if I can't see you, you can't see me.

Please don't see me.

He tries to say, "don't hurt the plant" but of course he can't say no, even now. Especially now.

"Help the plant," he says again, trying to phrase it without negatives, "take the plant with us, please --"

Chewie grumbles soothingly and, releasing Poe, lifts the dais as a whole with both paws.

Finn and Rey are back to back, turning in a slow circle between Chewie and Poe and the rest of the room.

"Are we going to have any more problems?" Finn asks, his voice low and dangerous.

"Yeah!" Rey says. "Answer him! Are we? No? Good."

With a tip of her head, she signals Chewie toward the exit and she and Finn close the gap. Once they're out of the party, they start running, Chewie in the lead, Aelit and Poe bouncing and thrashing.

*

Aboard the _Falcon_ , Aelit releases him, slowly, almost reluctantly. They're already in hyperspace and the anxiety pulsing off Aelit is worse than the usual weird nausea the jump gives him.

"It's all right," Poe murmurs, "it's okay."

Finn's helping Chewie, holding vines out of the way, lending a hand to Poe's elbow, but Poe avoids his eyes as he sinks down to his knees. 

Aelit curls in on itself, wrapping up until it looks like an out-sized version of those milksap pods in the wetlands back home. **< dream now,>** it tells him as Poe rests his forehead against the horn and stamen. He envies how quickly it assumes this calm.

Their touches - Chewie's rough paw, Finn's warm palm - are sparking responses in him, stirring in his dick, making him swallow a moan, hide his face.

"Can I --" He swallows again when the hair on Chewie's arm brushes his shoulder. "Blanket, maybe?"

Chewie pads off in search of it. 

"Hey," Finn says, sitting on the edge of the dais next to him. "You okay?"

Poe snorts and presses the heels of his hands against his eye sockets.

"You want to sit down, or --" Finn touches his shoulder again, because he's a nice guy, he's _concerned_ , and Poe's sick body shudders, cock hardening, groan escaping.

He tries to say, "I can't", but his lips smack around the empty shapes of the words. Shaking his head, he tries again, "Knees are good."

He doesn't want to think about what state his ass is in.

Finn busies himself with a small datapad, squinting at it, tapping rapidly, grimacing a little, then grinning as he stows it inside the vest. "There's a droid back home steaming mad we didn't let him come along."

"Shit." Poe isn't sure what else to say, gripped as he is by panic at the very thought of BB-8 seeing him like this. "Thanks for that. Barring him, I mean."

Finn nods slowly. "It was him, you know. Picked up the feed and told Rey."

Poe shudders at that thought, his gut twisting hollow and sick.

When Chewie returns with the blanket, Poe wraps it around his waist and pulls himself to his feet by holding onto one of Aelit's stalks. "I should go clean up."

"You need help," Finn says.

Poe's balance wavers and he rocks from foot to foot. "I'm okay."

"No," Finn says. "I'm coming."

He doesn't have the mental capacity to figure out how to argue without phrasing anything in the negative. "Fine."

Once inside the bunkroom, with Finn toting three med-kits, with more packages of bacta wraps in his mouth, Poe piles two folded pillows, then sits cautiously on top.

"Are there any narco-hypos?" he asks. "When this stuff wears off, I'm going to need..."

Finn's sitting right in front of him. His face is all twisted up.

"I'm okay," Poe tries to say. "Really."

Finn shakes his head. "Can you _see_ yourself, man?"

Poe closes his eyes. "Unsure I want to, to tell you the truth." He fumbles for an antiseptic wipe and starts slow, on the sucker burns on the back of his hands, the abrasions on his arm from some of Aelit's leaves.

"Let me --" Finn takes the wipe.

"If you touch me," Poe says as quietly as he can, "I'm going to come and come and _come_."

Finn doesn't say anything. Eventually, Poe makes himself open his eyes. Finn's lower lip is caught in his teeth, his eyes wide and a little shiny.

"Sorry," Poe continues. "Seems to be the rules? I get touched, I come."

 _And I **like** it,_ he does not add.

Finn shivers a little, then starts daubing the wipe at Poe's cuts. The sting is sharp, poking through his fog and confusion. "I need to risk it."

"Big of you," Poe says but it's a little easier to talk now. He exhales. "Thanks, by the way."

Finn's gaze flickers up through his long lashes, then he looks back at what he's doing. "Of course."

"Love the costume."

Finn grins and ducks his head. "Feel like a fool."

"Nah, you pulled it off." Poe reaches to brush his fingers over the skin exposed at the base of Finn's throat. His hand is filthy, but Finn leans into it; his pulse jumps against Poe's touch like thunder. "Looks great."

Finn looks at him now, straight on and calm. After a moment, Poe manages to look back, almost as steadily.


End file.
